


Never Had a Chance to Bloom

by distanceseventeen



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Gen, Healing, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, SAVED Asriel Dreemurr, Self-Hatred, Soulless Asriel Dreemurr, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distanceseventeen/pseuds/distanceseventeen
Summary: You know that everyone misses the old Asriel. That's as obvious as the sun in the sky. But he's dead, and you can't feel anything, no matter how much everyone tries to find ways to heal you. You're going to prove that to be true as often as you need to until it sticks.That's your intention, at least. Reality goes a little differently.
Relationships: Asgore Dreemurr & Asriel Dreemurr, Asriel Dreemurr & Toriel, Chara & Asriel Dreemurr & Frisk
Comments: 61
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a one shot, and then it got away from me. People learning to heal is always a long process. I'm hoping that it stays at the planned three chapters, but we'll see. Please enjoy!
> 
> Trigger warnings in this chapter: references to child death, references to suicide, brief suicidal ideation, and a huge dose of Asriel being really, really horrible to everyone, including himself.

"There's no point in trying to fix me," you tell the therapist as soon as you've sat down. "I can't feel anything."

The therapist, whose name you've deliberately chosen not to learn, simply looks down at the clipboard you handed her. There's a moment's silence. You simply look around the office. Warm colors, affirmative posters. Cheerful. Almost sickeningly so. You don't know much about interior design, but the bright primary colors and simple lettering on the posters strike you as vaguely insulting. 

"You indicated on this questionnaire that you have trouble sleeping," she says, tapping the line in question with a painted fingernail. You aren't great at reading human facial expressions yet, but you're pretty sure that she's trying to convey a calming presence. "You also indicated that you are often restless. Can you tell me about that?"

She's ignoring what you said. You idly consider giving her a scary face, but decide to save it for later. "It's already there on the questionnaire. Obviously, I don't like sitting still and I can't sleep. Do you need reading lessons or are you just braindead?"

"There's no reason for it?"

" _No,_ " you say, wondering how you ended up with the most idiotic therapist in the world. "It's just a thing that happens."

"I see. What do you hope to get out of therapy, Asriel?"

"There's nothing I can get out of it. My mom's just making me do it. Like I said, it's pointless. I can't feel anything."

"You said you were restless."

"That's not an emotion, stupid. It's just having nothing that holds your interest for very long. It's a state of mind."

"Fair," she concedes. "What would you be doing if your mom didn't make you come?"

"Setting stuff on fire, probably. Or pranking people. Or making them cry. I'm very good at that."

"I see. Do you have any other interests?"

"Nope."

"None at all?"

"Nope."

You know what this is. She's trying to get you to open up with something you like, something that makes you happy, in order to gain your trust so you'll tell her more later. It's a tactic you yourself have used a thousand times. You decide that you're not giving her anything. 

"Any friends?"

"No."

"Hobbies?"

"No."

"What do you do with your time besides pranking people and setting fires, then?"

"Mostly, I sit in rooms with people who want to know all the sad things that happened to me." You make a show of glancing at the clock. "Are we done? Can I go now?"

If the jab bothered her, she doesn't show it. "If you don't want to discuss anything, you don't have to. May I show you something?"

"Knock yourself out."

She opens a drawer in her desk and extracts a brightly colored sheet of laminated paper. She holds it up. There are three brightly colored circles and some arrows. "In the psychology field, we often talk about the cognitive-behavioral theory of mind. We have emotion, behavior, and thoughts. They are all distinct from one another, but they do influence one another."

She taps the page. "Even with your emotional issues, we can address your thoughts and behaviors here to help you become a more well-adjusted person. I don't plan to force you to pretend to feel what you don't. My job is to help you adjust to your new life and find fulfillment, whatever that may mean for you."

You give her your most insincere smile. "Gee, that sounds nice! It's almost like you think I'm not soulless. Did you not hear me the first time? I'm not gonna be 'fulfilled' no matter what happens."

"I understand that you believe that now." She considers you, still projecting that aura of calmness. It's like she's trying to tame an unruly animal. You don't like it. "But your boredom is sometimes alleviated, isn't it?"

"Nope."

"Never?"

"Nope." You check the clock again. Only two minutes have passed. 

"Why don't you tell me about your home life?"

"Why should I?"

"It will give me a better idea of your situation."

"Golly, it's almost like you haven't already heard it all from my mom! Look, I'm not dumb. You're hoping I'll tell you that I cause trouble on purpose. That I'm a _bad_ kid, who is just so tortured by his psychological issues that he can't help but act out! That I'll spill my sob story or whatever, and you'll finish this session proud that you've found the heart of the soulless prince. And I'll behave nice from now on, and you'll have a shiny new credential on your wall."

She's blinking. It's a small reaction, but it's enough. You grin even wider. "You were glad that my mom chose you, weren't you? I've gotten a lot of press attention since I came back from the dead. If you fix me, I'll bet you'll be the most respected therapist in the nation! Maybe you'll even go on Mettaton's new talk show, talking about how you 'understood' me and 'loved' me and all that junk. And you'll feel super good about yourself, 'cause you proved to yourself that you're a good enough person to fix even the most hopeless piece of work anyone's ever met!"

"It's disappointing that you think of yourself as hopeless," she says, after a small pause. Her voice is even. "Maybe that's something we can work on."

You grudgingly have to admit that she's good. She's even quit blinking. You point a finger at her. "You're deflecting so you don't have to face the truth. Admit that I'm right already."

"I know you believe that people have ulterior motives for their behavior around you. And it does make sense, considering your situation, and the complexity of people's reactions to you. People _do_ sometimes have multiple motives. But Asriel, sometimes altruism itself is the motivation. Sometimes people do things because it's the right thing to do."

Your smile turns razor. "Oh, absolutely! You're doing this out of the pure kindness of your heart. And you're graciously turning down the payment for this invaluable service."

"People have to eat," she says. Her expression is still unshakingly gentle. "If I had all my material needs taken care of, I would be doing this job for free. I give a lot of my paycheck away to various charities. I like to give back to the world."

"How special! I bet you adopt blind puppies and foster random orphans too."

"You're showing some spirit. I'm glad. The first step to change is motivation, even if you aren't directing it to where it needs to be directed."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

She smiles serenely. "Even with your emotional issues, you clearly have some very strong opinions. I think that's a good place to start. Why don't you tell me some of your thoughts about your family?"

"Why don't you throw yourself off a cliff?"

"That's one way to start."

***

You're in the backyard, idly casting fire onto the end of a twig, when you hear a cleared throat. You look up. A thin smile crosses your mouth when you see who it is. "Howdy, Chara."

They kneel beside you. It's weird, seeing Frisk's body move so differently than how they usually do. You're still surprised nobody else has noticed it. When they speak, their voice is more clipped than Frisk's, the enunciation more deliberate. "How did it go?"

"Oh, y'know. We talked about some stuff. I tried to scare her. Revealed my tragic backstory. It was _awful."_

"It must be so hard for you to have a civil conversation with someone. Truly, a burden you do not deserve."

You roll your eyes. "Did you sprain something with all that sarcasm?"

They're fighting a smile. "All those horrible things you have done, all the times that you have died, and what finally gets to you is being forced to talk. It's the worst tragedy I've ever heard. I could weep tears of blood--"

You reach out to push them, but they bat your hands away, smirking. "Nope."

"I could sneak attack you, you know. Rip your guts out when you're sleeping."

"And I could do the same to you."

"I'm faster."

"I'm quieter." Their smirk grows even wider. "If we are talking assassination, I have you beat in nearly every department that matters. Unlike you, I am used to the body I inhabit."

"You don't have magic, idiot. I have long range burn control." You wiggle your fingers. "Still figuring it out, but I could probably snipe someone with this! And then they would be super dead."

"Well, I have one way to beat you."

"What?"

"I can't be killed. If I go down, I'll always come back. And I will learn from my mistakes."

"Edgy. I'm _soooooo_ glad my sibling gets power over life and death! Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

They go quiet at that. After a moment, they lean against your shoulder. You don't push them off.

It's rare for Chara to touch you at all. Frisk loves giving every monster who stands still long enough a hug, and you are no exception. They like flopping against you while you're sitting on the couch, giving you long hugs after they come home from school or ambassador activities, hooking an arm around you when they introduce you to their endless number of friends. It doesn't take more than half a brain cell to guess that they're trying to make up for all the time you've spent alone. When it's Chara piloting, though, things are different. If they're leaning against you like that, they're either having a bad day and want your comfort (for some reason), or they're having a good day and just think whatever they're about to say is important enough that they want to lull you into a sense of nostalgia. Both possibilities annoy you.

"Really, though," they say. "Did it go well?"

"Shouldn't it be Frisk asking that? They're the sweet, nice, caring one."

"I'd be here for it anyway. That is kind of how the connection works."

"Still. Why not them? Do you get a kick out of seeing me say that nothing helps and that I'm still the same as I ever was? Does it make you feel better about yourself?"

"And that answers my question. You could be nicer about it, you know."

"Okay," you say cheerfully. "I'm still soulless! Inside, I'm still a horrible little weed. Nothing can change that and nothing ever will. I don't love you or anyone else, and you're stupid for hoping that I will someday."

"And it is my fault." Their voice sharpens a few degrees. They stop leaning on you. "I believe you forgot that one. That is why you have license to do whatever you like, correct? In the end, you can blame it all on me for letting you die. You have absolutely no responsibility for your own actions at all."

"It is your fault! But you're still kind of behind on something."

"Which is?"

"It doesn't matter." You spread your hands, still grinning. There's a bitterness on your tongue. "Blame, conscience, responsibility? Those mean nothing when you can't feel remorse! I'd assumed you'd know that already, Chara."

It cuts them, the way you knew it would. They're quiet for a few moments, breathing deep. "So what happened to 'I did a lot of weird things as a flower?' You did seem like you wanted to change, before. But now you will not even consider the possibility."

It strikes a chord in you that you didn't even know existed. You can't find a witty retort, something else to slip past their armor and get an amusing reaction. Suddenly, it no longer feels like a game to antagonize them. 

You did want to change. You'd been sure of it, back when the remnants of everyone else's love still burned hot in your chest. You'd promised never to become as cruel as you were before, even if those feelings faded, even if you turned back into a flower. You'd been certain you would never hurt another person.

(You'd thought, before your cowardly instincts shied away from it again, that you would be able to ensure that you wouldn't _live_ to hurt another person. You were already dead. It was better that you disappear instead of continuing a meaningless existence.)

(But, of course, you've never been brave the way Chara is.)

(You kept living. You kept this shape. And you are still empty inside, despite everything.)

"I said that when I could still feel," you finally say. You haven't let yourself stop smiling, though you feel so hollowed-out you could crack open. "Did you think things would stay the same after I lost those feelings? That I would _want_ the same things I did before? You idiot. You're just as stupid as you were before you died."

"So you refuse to even try."

"I prefer to think of it as conserving my energy for something more interesting. Like, like… I don't know, planning to murder six random humans and dragging someone who loves me into it."

You're playing dirty, going for the lowest blow you can get in, and it hits. They smile, sudden and bright and sharp like the glint off a knife. There's so much anger in it that it resembles a smile in only the most superficial sense. "You are such a coward, Asriel. You always have been. If you want to hurt everyone who loves you, just so you can keep pretending that you have no emotions, by all means, be my guest. But you are not above consequences. Do not come crying back to me when everyone abandons you."

"I won't, because nobody will abandon me. They still think the old Asriel is in here somewhere, locked up and waiting to be rescued, and they love him way too much to leave me alone. Nobody is ever gonna stop trying to fix me." Your smile feels increasingly like plastic. "Monsters don't throw away people, even when they're too messed up to ever heal! It's another thing I learned from you."

Their hands squeeze into fists. "You--"

You're ready for them to punch you, but their expression changes suddenly. There's a wobble at the corner of their mouth, fear in their expression. Frisk doesn't look at you when they sign, _That's enough._

"We were just getting to the interesting part of the argument." You can't seem to stop the avalanche of words spilling out. "Or do you want to tell me how you were thrown away too, just like Chara, and how you throw yourself into helping people because--"

 _Stop,_ they sign, and the gesture has so much force that you flinch. They're holding their body so stiffly that their muscles vibrate. _Don't say anything else._

Something about their expression makes your stomach hurt. You finally hold your tongue, looking down at the burnt twig in your hands. Their breathing is shaky. You can tell they're struggling not to cry.

You've never gotten that reaction from Frisk before. You always hammer on every button until it breaks off, trying to find some scrap of entertainment in antagonizing the people around you, but Frisk always stays stoic when you go for their throat. You'd assumed that they were simply too perfect to be bothered by you. Now, you're revising that idea. You think that they might just be good at hiding their vulnerabilities.

The thought should excite you. You like tearing off masks and finding the weak spots underneath. It's the only thing that consistently held your interest when you were a flower, and even now, it remains your favorite game. But your stomach is aching so badly that it's making you sick. You can't find any interest in pursuing their weaknesses anymore. Even the thought of trying again once the ache is gone holds no appeal for you. 

(You think of how you'd promised yourself that you would never hurt anyone else again.)

It's stupid. You never apologize to anyone, at least, not in any way that matters. You can't feel the necessary emotion to make an apology sincere. But you have the feeling that you've shattered something important, and you can't go back in time and fix it. You don't want to alienate Frisk and Chara so much that they stop spending time with you. It's an unfamiliar impulse, but you open your mouth to stumble your way through an apology.

But when you look up again, Frisk is gone.

***

"You seem to have a hard time defining your sense of self," your therapist comments during your fifth session with her. The small, sickly-bright room hasn't changed at all. You've spent the majority of these sessions alternately deflecting questions, halfheartedly trying to provoke her, and staring at the glowing salt lamp she keeps on her desk. You're wondering if you could get away with stealing it. The idea has some attraction.

Since you're saying nothing, she says, "You told me you have no interests or hobbies. Is that still true?"

"Yep."

"You might have an easier time with your chronic boredom if you try to find an interest."

"Okay! I'll go try committing arson."

She smiles. "Something constructive. Maybe knitting, or drawing, or writing. Many people find art to be a good outlet for negativity. At the very least, it'll fill up your time."

"I don't like any of those things. They're stupid."

"I see. You're very good at communicating when you dislike something, you know. It stands to reason that there must be things you do like, as well."

"No. There's nothing "

She nods as if it's a reasonable statement. There's that look in her eye that she gets every time she's about to corner you into admitting something. You hate it. "Then there are things you must hate less than others."

"Wrong again," you tell her, showing your fangs. "Just because I don't like something doesn't mean that I dislike it, idiot. It can also mean that I'm indifferent. Which I am."

"Then you shouldn't mind trying a few constructive hobbies out."

Cornered again. You can't say you weren't expecting it. You wish you could still morph your face; you'd like the benefit of a grotesque expression right now. The best you can do is roll your eyes and return to staring at the salt lamp. "Okay. I'll get right on building a set of bombs. I bet Mettaton has some good tips."

She opens a drawer in her desk and extracts one of her infinite sheets of paper. This one is regular black ink on white paper, for once. She hands it to you. It's a list of questions, with plenty of space to write answers. "Before we leap to explosives, maybe you can fill out this worksheet at home. If you're so indifferent to everything, you'll have no trouble using some of your free time to get it done."

Instantly, your fingers catch fire. You hold eye contact and smile innocently as the paper goes up in flames. "Oops! My bad."

She looks unsurprised. This is far from the first time you've set things she handed to you on fire. Instead, she simply holds out the trash can and says, "There. We have one answer for the worksheet filled out, at least."

"How many copies did you make?"

"Ten."

You drop the ashes into the trash can. You've set off the smoke detector before, too, but it had taken ten minutes for someone to turn it off. You'd gotten a headache. You'd prefer to just burn the papers she hands you and then quickly extinguish them. "Great! You can just hand them all over right now. You know, just in case I have another accident on the way home."

"I think I'll hang on to most of them." She hands you another one. You don't burn it immediately, mostly because she's expecting it now. "Anyway, one of the questions is 'name three things that you are good at.' I think fire is a good answer."

You look down at the paper. "Gee. This looks like a get-to-know-you exercise. Aren't you supposed to give those out on the first day of therapy?"

"It's not for me. It's for you. I think it would be good for you to define some things about yourself."

"That's stupid."

"You might as well try it. And while you're at it, maybe you can try a hobby. It can be something as simple as playing a new video game. You never know what might be good at easing your boredom."

"...Fine. Whatever."

"Our time is nearly up. Would you like to say anything else?"

You set the worksheet on fire. "Nope."

She smiles again and gets another one from the drawer. "You can also try to perfect your magic. I bet you can get a paper burnt in less than four seconds if you try hard."

"So you _are_ encouraging arson. Good to know."

Her smile grows. She puts the paper in your hands. "Burning paper you own in a controlled environment isn't arson. It's just developing a skill."

"Whatever."

"Have a good day, Asriel," she calls as you head out the door.

You bring the worksheet home, mostly because your mom is giving you a look that means she won't give you extra peach cobbler at dessert if you throw it away in front of her, but you simply leave it on your desk and refuse to work on it. Your therapist will probably give you that disappointed look. You don't care. Finding new ways to be deliberately uncooperative is the only thing that keeps your therapy sessions even a little bit interesting, and even that has started to lose its appeal. You hope she'll get sick of you and tell your mom she wants to quit soon. You're running out of ideas. Soon enough, you'll be forced to simply keep your mouth shut for every session, and how fun would that be?

The thing is, you get bored easily. Your mom tries her best to fill up your days with things to do, with varying degrees of success, and you always have new trouble to cause and new places to visit when the press isn't trying to follow you everywhere, but there's an empty pit in you that won't be filled no matter what you do. Maybe the soul power is decaying even more over time. You haven't turned back into a flower yet, but you think that it could happen soon.

You find that you wouldn't care much if you did. Maybe it would be easier to let yourself do whatever you wanted then.

So the next time your eyes fall on the worksheet and you realize that one of the questions is "name three things you dislike" you decide to just do it. It's pointless, but it's a way to fill up the time, and you think you can come up with some funny and inventive answers.

(You try not to think about just how pathetic that is.)

_Name three things you dislike._

_1\. People who ask me dumb questions._

_2\. People who treat me like I'm stupid._

_3\. People who won't take a hint._

Does it go against the "I don't have likes or dislikes" thing you've been maintaining? Sure. But she's known it was crap for a long time. You're changing tactics. Let her think she's getting somewhere with you, only so you can pull the rug out from under her again and show her what you really are. It might be enough to convince her that you can't be fixed.

_Name three things you like._

_1._ _Setting things on fire._

_2\. Messing with people._

_3._ _Being a problem child._

Most of the questions are equally inane. You're asked about your hobbies (you put down 'arson' and 'being a nuisance' for that.) You answer the questions about your favorite food and favorite activity in a similar fashion.

You're asked about your relationships with your family. You simply write _I don't love anyone_ for that question. The same goes for the question of whether you have friends.

These questions are starting to bug you. You're soulless. Doesn't anyone understand that yet? There are some things that just don't apply to you.

_What is your greatest fear?_

_I don't feel fear._

_What is your greatest goal in life?_

_I don't have one._

_What do you like about yourself?_

You want to come up with something hilarious for that. Your ability to do the most inventive pranks, maybe, or your ability to evade annoying questions. But none of the options seem funny anymore. You're getting sick again. 

_Do_ you like anything about yourself?

It's a stupid question. You move on.

_What do you wish was different about yourself?_

_I wish I was strong enough to make everyone let me do whatever I want_ , you almost write, but you stop yourself at the last minute. Despite all that you've been doing, you know actually attacking people is wrong. You're not going to shed a single drop of dust or blood ever again. That's one thing you've been able to stick to.

Dumb question, dumb question. After a moment, you decide to leave it blank as well.

_What do you want to be when you grow up?_

You stare at the question for a long moment. Your fingers tighten on the pencil.

You've never considered that question before. Back when you were a prince, you'd always known that you were going to grow up to be king. If you'd ever wished you'd could be something else, you'd never thought about it for long. There were impossible things that were okay to wish about, and impossible things that weren't. Only the worst kind of coward abandons their responsibilities. No matter how inadequate for the task you felt, you had no choice but to do your duty.

And then you'd been murdered, and growing up had become an impossibility. It had afforded a kind of freedom, being given anonymity and the ability to don a thousand different masks, but you'd known nothing you did truly mattered. You were always going to be frozen forever as a child. You'd given up on the idea of having a future at all.

And then Frisk had come, bringing hopes and dreams for everyone, and a new future for you. They'd returned for you three days after the Barrier came down. Chara took over and told you that they had been with Frisk all along, and they had apologized, and said that they loved you, and asked you to _try,_ just _try_ and see if you could live on the Surface without turning back into a flower, and you'd felt--

Nothing. You'd felt nothing. You were as empty as if you were dead.

The only thing you'd been certain of, once it became obvious that you would have a future again, is that you didn't want to pretend to love anyone. You've been a liar in every previous incarnation of yourself, but that kind of lie had seemed too big a responsibility to bear. You told your parents that you were soulless within five minutes of your reunion. And, of course, like they have every other timeline you've told them the truth, they held you tight and said it didn't matter. And, of course, like every other timeline, you knew that it did.

You have no idea what kind of person you'll grow up to be. You don't even have an idea of what kind of person you are now. You can't be Flowey anymore, but you don't know how to be Asriel, either. You jump from mask to mask, persona to persona, the way you've always done, but none of it feels right. None of it feels real.

You don't feel real.

The door creaks open. 

The pencil snaps in your hand.

Frisk ducks into the room. Their posture is defensive. Without looking at you, they sign, _Can I borrow one of your books?_

"Sure."

You have seperate rooms, mostly because you'd initially insisted on it. Sharing a room with Chara again after all this time would have been much too thorny for you both. But now, in the third week of both Chara and Frisk avoiding you as much as possible, you wish that you hadn't been so adamant against the idea. At least then it would be easier for you to tell if you've shattered everything beyond repair.

Your head is pounding. You can't muster up the words to ask them to stay with you. They're moving like a hunted creature, pulling their sleeves down over their hands, every step as careful as if they're walking near broken glass. It's like they think you'll explode if they catch your attention. 

_You don't need to act like everything will mess up if you breathe wrong,_ your crueler instincts want to say. There's a part of you that wants to be rid of the uncertainty and simply destroy any chance at reconciliation. Bitterness coats your tongue. You don't speak, caught between the desires to destroy and repair. _You can reset. There's no real reason to worry about me hurting you._

They select the book -- a slim booklet about having difficult conversations -- and leave, closing the door without a word. They still don't look at you.

Buttercups come to mind.

You look down at the worksheet again.

After a long moment, you crumple it into a ball and toss it into the trash can. You're just going to tell your therapist that you ate it or something. It's too pointless to even consider completing.

***

Late that night, as you're staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling, the sound of muffled crying comes through the wall. The sobs are noisy, much too wild for the crier to care about volume. You recognize it to be the noise someone makes after a night terror. You can't tell if it's Frisk or Chara. You don't know if it matters.

For a few minutes, you lie there, caught in a half-faded memory. You'd been frightened the first time Chara cried like that, frightened enough that you hadn't known what to do. You'd never seen that kind of raw pain before. Your heart had ached for them, but coward that you were, you had burrowed further into your bedsheets and pretended that you were still asleep. It had taken what felt like an eternity for them to quiet down. Only then did you get out of bed and offer to let them sleep with one of your stuffed animals.

It was a shallow gesture. Even back then, you'd known that. You'd still had the ability to love. And yet, a patched toy bunny was all that you could bring yourself to offer. How weak. How pathetic.

This time around, you can try to help. If you do a decent enough job, you could get them to quit avoiding you. You don't know Frisk very well, and it's been too long for you to remember what used to pacify Chara, but it's not like you haven't had to figure out manipulation on the fly before. You have more than just a stuffed toy this time. You have the backing of hundreds of resets spent learning how people work. Calming someone down should be child's play.

You get up. The sounds get louder as you pad out of your bedroom and down the hallway. There's no light coming from under their bedroom door. You can barely see the cheerful sign declaring _FRISK_ in the darkness. 

You're about to knock, but a thought stops you. You've hurt both of them too many times to count. There's a good possibility that they're crying because of something you did. Seeing you might make everything worse. They might assume you're here to hurt them again and just slam the door in your face.

And Chara knows you for what you are. Even if Frisk won't see it, they do. If you knock on the door, they'll know that you're only trying to manipulate your way back into their good graces. They're not naive enough to accept that kind of calculated comfort. They've always been too smart for that. Even your most sincere expressions of love were only sporadically accepted back before you both died.

You stand there, fist half-raised. You consider every action that has brought you to this point, every word you've used as a weapon against them both. You remember how you brought the buttercups to Chara. You think about the number of times you tried to kill Frisk. They've both forgiven nearly everything you've done, but everyone's forgiveness runs out eventually. You don't know if you'll get another chance to make things right.

You idiot. You should have just kept your stupid mouth shut. You don't have the resets to fall back on anymore. You should know by now to be more careful with the people you play with. It's all broken now because of you.

You go back to your room. The emptiness in you is so pronounced it's nearly a physical ache. You can still clearly hear the sobs from next door when you lay down in your bed. The image of Chara hugging the stuffed bunny like a lifeline haunts your mind. You don't know if it's imagined or if it's a real memory.

The cries don't taper off.

You press your hands against your ears and wait for it all to stop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my hiatus! I've been hyperfixating on learning how to draw, so writing has taken a back burner for the last 3 weeks. For ATUOTC fans, I should have a new chapter of that story posted in less than two weeks, barring weird mishaps.
> 
> I did end up drawing some art for this fic! You can [find it here.](https://a-town-called-hometown.tumblr.com/post/190924112908)
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter: a flashback to one of Flowey's murders, a depiction of a panic attack, Asriel contemplating being violent with other people, mentions of systematic mass murder, and Asriel's general self-hatred, negative ways of thinking about the world, and poor coping mechanisms. If there's anything else I forgot to tag for, let me know and I'll update the chapter notes.

_It was your right to play with the people underground. They were your toys, after all. Lines of coded impulse, strings of predetermined dialogue, unreal as the paper dolls you used to make. If you could love them, it would be different. If you could love them, you wouldn't be doing this at all. The old you had been too blinded by his emotions to see the thin cards his world was propped up on. If the new you wanted to knock down those card castles, you had no reason not to. You had already mastered every other game you could play with them._

_It was your right to do whatever you wanted. And yet, when your thoughts came to murder, you hesitated. It was stupid; you didn't need to think about how far you'd wandered from the person you used to be. That boy was dead, and his wishes didn't matter anymore. It was only you now. And you were never going to be anything other than soulless. Why not find out what you could do with your power?_

_You planned it with the same care you gave to all your kinder actions. It would be an easy experiment. Just another moldsmol in the Ruins, one that wouldn't be missed much. You could do more, murder the king to find out what would happen, but you told yourself that you weren't going to do it just yet. You just had to see what would happen with a small murder._

_It wouldn't change much. You were only crushing a paper doll. Nothing you did would truly have consequences. If you wanted to keep your boredom from eating you alive, you simply needed to do what the old you couldn't._

_Still, as your victim's dust scattered through the air, something in you tugged gently loose, like a knot unraveling from around a curtain. The sensation of bullets piercing your old body's skin ran through your mind. You remembered dust, and your sibling's corpse cold in your arms, and how their soul had screamed at you to kill your attackers. You could nearly taste the panic you had felt when you realized that you were about to die._

_For a single, solitary instant, you trembled._

_And then a laugh knifed its way out of your throat. You were helpless against it, your body shaking with it, determination searing through every cell. You'd done it. You'd stopped being a coward. The old you had died to avoid committing murder, and wasn't it just_ hilarious _how much stronger you were than him?_

Look at me now, Chara _, you'd thought, so overcome with laughter that you were almost screaming._ Look. I did it. I'm not a crybaby anymore. You were right; the world is kill or be killed! And look! I'm strong enough that nobody can stop me from murdering _anyone_ if I want to! 

_Mirth wracked your body. Your roots and stem and petals felt severed from your mind, foreign objects that had no connection to you, but you didn't care. All that mattered was the wild, wild laughter, the triumph in it, the knowledge that you were strong now. Tears trickled down your cheeks, but you had no desire to stop._

_You were going to make this place_ burn _in despair._

***

You wake choking on air. Your body hurts so badly that you grab at your chest to make sure it wasn't ripped open. You try to get your lungs to work, but they won't move. There's nothing strangling you. Your body just can't process oxygen anymore. And maybe you'll die, and maybe turn back into a flower, and maybe you'll just stop existing, and there are so many phantom pains you feel like the bullets are piercing you again, the way they did so long ago--

Your brain finally remembers how to make your lungs move. You gasp in deep, ragged breaths. The air tastes like lavender. You're in your own bed. You're not dying. It was just a dream.

Deep breath after deep breath. You stare at the stars stuck onto the ceiling. The phantom pains still pierce through you, but they're more manageable now. You focus on breathing. Your instincts still tell you that you're not safe, but those are stupid. Nothing bad happened. You just need to get your mind to work normally again.

 _This looks an awful lot like a panic attack_ , your mind supplies before you shove the thought back from the dark corner it came from. You remembered being in fight-or-flight mode, and so your body reacted accordingly. It's basic survival instinct. Even animals have survival instincts. It doesn't mean you're capable of actual panic. It just means that you're not braindead.

Breathe. Breathe. You have lungs now. Use them, you idiot. You're going to suffocate if you don't.

(That shouldn't have been fight-or-flight mode, though. You weren't in any danger in your dream. Your victim had no opportunity to hurt you. You had made sure of that. You were _laughing_ \--)

No. That train of thought goes nowhere. You aren't going to think about it anymore. You're just going to get on with your day as soon as your body realizes that you're fine. And you _are_ fine. You're not a flower. You're not going to have to explain that to your parents.

Inhale, exhale. You sit up. It takes a few minutes to collect yourself and get dressed. Your legs are shaky, but you force yourself to leave your bedroom and head down the hallway. As you pass, you see that Frisk left their door open. No sign of them inside.

When you check the kitchen for them, you find them there with your mom, their hands signing furiously. You catch only a few signs _\-- Dad, important, please --_ before they notice you. Their expression turns uncertain.

"Howdy," you say, not sure what else to do.

Frisk rarely makes eye contact with you, but at least they don't usually stare anywhere but at your face. Their hands raise to sign, and then slowly lower back to their sides. You wish you were better at reading human faces. You have no idea what they could be thinking.

Your mom breaks the awkward silence. "Greetings, my child. Frisk was simply telling me that they would like to call a meeting of all your friends tonight."

When you look at her, she's smiling. She always smiles when she sees you. You've ripped into her more times than you can count since you got back, but she never stops acting like she's happy to see you, even when it's obvious that she's not. You think she's trying to show you that she loves you, or maybe she's trying to keep you happy enough that you don't feel the urge to destroy. You'd normally find it annoying. Today you just wish she wouldn't. You're getting a headache.

You return your gaze to Frisk. "What for?"

 _It's important,_ they sign. _Anyway, Mom, can you let Dad in? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really important that he be there._

"Are you certain?"

_Yes._

"And it needs to be here?"

_Yes._

"It is… a lot to ask, to let him into my home after what he has done."

"Frisk has big plans for the future of humans and monsters," you say. It won't do very much for earning their forgiveness, but you may as well help them enact whatever they're planning. "It's sensitive info. Obviously, it makes sense to have the king and several friends there to advise them. You know the fallout that happens when you don't talk through important stuff with other people. And this house is probably the safest and most comfortable place to have a meeting."

"I suppose you are right." She sighs. "I will let him in. But I worry about you having to make such important decisions, my child. Your job as ambassador is such a heavy job for one so young."

"No heavier than being the heir to the throne." For you, it's mild. You don't want to make Frisk upset by antagonizing your mom in front of them. Judging by the look they're giving you, they're grateful you're not pushing things the way you usually do. "Anyway, Frisk, do you want--"

 _I need to go to another meeting, actually,_ they sign. They've gone back to staring at the floor. _Dad is picking me up._

Your temples throb. You look at the floor too. Though it's small, you swear that there's still a chip on a tile from the time you hurled a plate at the floor. Evidence of your destruction. It's bugging you, so you look at them again. "Okay."

_See you later._

You step aside to let them leave the kitchen. You wish they'd look at you, but they don't. They're still moving like a hunted thing. 

You were right. You can't fix things.

...It's fine. You don't need to be on good terms with them, anyway. You don't need anyone at all.

Your mom smiles tentatively at you. She's clearly noticed the weirdness with you and Frisk, but of course, she doesn't comment. "You and Frisk both woke up late today. If you would like to eat something immediately, help yourself, but I am already starting to make lunch."

"Can you get me painkillers? I have a headache."

"Yes. Hang on a moment."

She exits the room. You hear a door open in the bathroom. After a minute, she returns, two small pink pills in her palm. She fills a cup with water and hands them to you. "Here you are."

You take the pills. You don't expect an immediate effect, because that's not how things work, but you wish there was one anyway. Your headaches have been bad lately. One of the downsides of having a body that isn't made of plant matter glued together with determination: more nerves to get messed up.

"What time is it?"

"Close to noon. I did not want to wake you or Frisk; you have both seemed tired lately."

"Oh."

She seems about to ruffle your fur, but you tense your shoulders in warning, and she lowers her hand, whatever affectionate statement she was about to make dying on her lips. Good. "Would you like to help me make lunch?"

Usually, you'd scoff at her. The words are easy to find: _you must be losing brain cells in your old age, I would rather watch paint dry, I'm too busy trying to figure out whether snails can cure dying children._ You could cut her down in an instant. You're very good at doing that.

Instead, you say, "Sure. Why not."

She looks surprised. After a few seconds, though, she smiles again. "Then wash your hands. I am making soup."

You wash your hands. You can see her considering the vegetables that she still hasn't chopped. Evidently deciding that you haven't stabbed anyone yet and don't seem likely to pick up the hobby now, she hands you a knife and directs you towards a stalk of celery. "Here."

You get to work. It's not an activity that you've done since before you died, but it's simple to figure out, even with your still-imperfect motor skills. With basic knife training, even a five-year-old could do it.

You don't usually like hanging around your mom. She's decided to homeschool you, though, so you have no choice. You run away sometimes, and you wander off to cause trouble all the time, but you're too recognizable to be able to get away with running away to a different city. You don't have any means to support yourself. Your dad isn't in a condition to give you what you need. It's most comfortable to simply live with your mom and let her take you to libraries and museums, no matter how much you dislike the way she looks at you.

You should have known at the beginning that your mom and dad would keep thinking of you as the old Asriel. It's happened in every timeline you've told them who you are. They're so eager to talk to you about the old days, to coddle the hurt out of you, that they refuse to see the worst of you. It's stupid. You're very obviously not the same sweet boy they remember. And even if you had a soul, you'd still have to lie to be that person. You've never been as good as everyone likes to believe you were. 

Funny that you used to worry your parents wouldn't love you anymore if you weren't perfect. The old Asriel would have traded anything to be secure in that. It's the most rotten joke of all that you, the person who can feel no love, the person who killed as a game, are stuck knowing just how enormous that love for the old you is. You can't escape its weight no matter how much you want to.

But despite your issues with your mom, you find that your mind is strangely silent as you chop carrots and mince an onion. She doesn't talk to you. You don't talk to her. You're simply feeling the sensations of objects in your hands, the gentle sound of the knife carving through a vegetable, the sound of your own breath. It's a rare moment that you aren't actively wishing for something else while doing something mundane. You try to make it last.

"I was thinking we could go back to that science museum you liked," your mom says after a few quiet minutes. "They've unveiled a new exhibit. Perhaps you would find it interesting."

"What's the exhibit on?"

"Meteors, comets, and other space debris. Apparently, a major meteor shower will happen in three months. They see it as an opportunity to teach people about the topic. Would you like to go?"

"Sure."

"Good. I will make _space_ for it in your schedule."

You roll your eyes. "And today? What are we doing?"

"You have a therapy appointment. And of course, that meeting Frisk insisted on."

"Huh."

You wonder why Frisk decided to do this. You used the excuse of politics for it, but for all you know, it's a surprise early birthday party for someone. Making that kind of thing an emergency seems like it's in character for them. They like to make people happy.

You wish you hadn't ruined things with them. You would have liked to know their plans. You might even have had fun helping out.

"Asriel," she says. It takes you a second to realize she's repeated your name several times. You look up. She's not smiling anymore. "Is something wrong? You are not usually so quiet."

"Headache."

"Do you think you are sick?"

You shrug one shoulder. "Could be."

"You can go read one of your books on the porch if you like. Sunshine usually makes you feel better. I remember when you were a baby, when you used to get sick all the time--"

She stops. You don't have to see her to know she's reconsidering her words. You've had this fight several times before. She should know that you hate it when she talks about the past. It's idiotic that she can't just forget and move on already.

"That was then. This is now."

She's looking at you, concern in her eyes. It's the same look Frisk and Chara give you. Pity, wariness, the reaction of a kind person to a wounded and feral beast. You avert your eyes. Finally, she says, "I suppose it is."

You don't say more. Your head is still pounding. You look down and realize that your hand is gripping the knife hard enough to hurt. The muscles in your hand twitch when you let go.

"If there is something bothering you, you know that you can talk to me about anything," she says gently, and yep, there it is. Same story, different dialogue, the same things she's told you a hundred times. You're sick of it. "I may not understand it, but--"

"There's nothing to discuss. I don't have emotions. We've had this conversation."

"I know we have. But you and Frisk seem to--"

"Don't be stupid. Even if I had problems, it's not like I would tell them to you. If you're gonna talk about the past, you should know I didn't trust you with my issues even when I loved you." An edge slips into your tone. "You and Dad never knew half the stuff that went on in my head. Or Chara's, for that matter."

You aren't looking at her, but you hear the slight hitch in her breath. Your knife scrapes loudly against the cutting board.

"Do you blame us for what happened to you, then?" she asks quietly. "For not knowing that you were going to fulfill their last request? If we had been better parents, do you think things would have been different?"

Your headache is getting worse. You wish, fleetingly, that you hadn't had this conversation happen in a hundred timelines. Maybe the question would hold more weight then. It's simply another line of dialogue to you now. Responsibility, guilt, blame. You're not in the mindset to grapple with those ideas. And you're certainly not in the mindset to deal with her shame when you tell her all the ways she failed you.

You still remember the moment when her soul recognized you, back in that forgotten moment when you'd stolen everyone's souls. The emotions from all monsters had been blindingly intense, but her shock and love and joy had been distinct for how much of it was composed of guilt. In that moment, you had wanted nothing more than to have her hold you and never let go. You'd wanted to tell her that you loved her. That you forgave her from it all.

You look at her now and only see a string of code. Not a mother to hold you, not a person with her own problems. She is input and output, defined by her all-consuming guilt and love and fear. There's nothing in her that can provide for you. You don't even find entertainment in her anymore. She's just an annoyance, and a particularly bad one at that, now that she is more willing to confront problems directly.

(You think of her body turning to dust, and how you had laughed when you murdered her. The thought twists in your gut like a knife. You push it away.)

"It doesn't matter," you say. You crack a smile for the first time all day. It hurts your cheeks. "You're not going to stop regretting everything no matter what I say to you. That's how you work. Nothing I do is gonna change it."

She's silent for a while. You finish with the vegetables and dump them into the soup pot. You're about to leave, but a hand touches your shoulder.

"I am sorry," she says, just as you knew she would. "If it means anything to you, I would trade anything to go back and be what you needed me to be. You and Chara both."

You exhale the ghost of a laugh. "Careful with your wishes. Time travel isn't great, trust me."

"I mean it. And although I cannot change the past, I promise that from here onwards, you may trust me with anything at all that troubles you. I know you do not love me, or even like me, but I will endeavor to be my best for you."

You consider her hand on your shoulder, the stupidly heartfelt look on her face. The old you, the you she refuses to let you forget, would have let her hug him. He would have lied to spare her from seeing what she didn't want to see. He would have told her that she was already what he needed.

How many times do you need to prove that he's gone?

You want to show your fangs. Push her away, tell her that you can't be fixed. But the nightmare you had still lingers in your mind. You think of Frisk avoiding you, of standing outside a door wishing you could go inside. You don't want to twist the knife and ruin something else you can't get back. Besides, your head already hurts. You don't have the energy to draw this out more.

So instead of cutting her deeper, you shrug tiredly. "Whatever."

She turns back to the soup pot. Before she can bring up anything trivial, or god forbid, something stupidly serious again, you slip out of the kitchen. You just want to lie down until your headache goes away. Her presence is much too grating on you.

You wish you'd gotten more sleep. You make a mental note to get something to ward away nightmares. Two people having them in a single night is too much. You don't enjoy being helpless, even if you don't feel actual fear.

Like an annoying pop-up ad, your mind gives you the memory of both nightmares' aftermaths. Like an annoying pop-up ad, you shut it down. You're fine. You're _fine._

You hope tonight is interesting. That anticipation should be enough to get you through the next meeting with your therapist.

***

"Your behavior has been better in the last week," your therapist says, looking at the chart your mom filled out before sending you into the session. "Have you been applying some of the behavioral analysis we talked about?"

"You say that like it was a conversation. You were talking. I was sitting in this chair and wondering if you have ever seen a trite saying and decided not to hang it on your wall." You gesture to one of the offending posters. "Analyze _that_ behavior, why don't you?"

"They're reminders. The narratives we tell ourselves have an enormous power to influence our lives. Reinforcing a positive narrative can only have benefits, even if you don't necessarily believe the words. You should try it. Many people find it therapeutic to come up with a happiness mantra."

"I'm not about to stand in front of a mirror every morning and tell myself that I can achieve joy or whatever. Aside from it not being possible, that's just dumb. It's like expecting gravity to stop working just because you wish it wouldn't."

"That's a mantra too."

"Saying that gravity works? Boy, I didn't think that they let people get through therapist school without knowing how basic physics works."

She smiles. "No. I mean you saying that you can't achieve joy. You say something to that effect every time I see you."

"I say that 'cause nobody ever listens to me about it. I wouldn't say it if people just accepted it already."

"I see."

"Don't lie to me. I know you don't. If you did see, you'd have given up on me by now."

"I think this chart is proof that I shouldn't. You _are_ getting better, Asriel. It may be hard to see, but--"

"I'm not," you say, dragging a hand down the side of your face. You're too sleep-deprived for this. "I haven't suddenly turned _nice._ That's not how I work. I don't like the consequences, so I'm playing along."

"Did something happen?"

"Things are always happening. You gotta be more specific."

"The consequences," she clarifies. "What were they?"

Your mind goes blank. There should be an easy lie somewhere, but you can't find it. You won't say what happened. She'll start thinking that you need other people, that you have the capacity to love your family, that you can _change--_

"Do you know how to make nightmares stop?" you blurt.

Idiot.

"Yes," she says, only momentarily caught off-guard. "There are many techniques to reduce nightmares. Relaxing before bed, reducing caffeine consumption. A few more."

You slouch deeper in your chair, wishing you could reset. You'd introduce the question more elegantly then. Glean it from her, rather than asking outright. But you're here, and so grudgingly, you say, "Tell me more."

"There are also medications that will make you sleep more deeply. However, those are simply topical treatments. They don't address the root of the problem. It's easier to remove them completely when you can talk through the content of the dream."

"Talking, huh."

"I know you're sick of talking. But it can effectively get rid of the nightmares if you are able to process those thoughts while you're conscious. It can help you understand your fears--"

"I don't have fears."

She's simply looking at you. You still can't read her face well enough to know her exact thoughts. It's driving you crazy. You need something, _anything,_ to chip away at her defenses, but there's no way in. You're not in control at all. And you don't even know if you want to take it back.

You grit your teeth. "You know what? Forget it. Go on one of your monologues or whatever. I'll listen."

"You calling it a nightmare suggests that it scares you. If you don't feel fear, what is it?"

"Instinct. That's all."

"What's the difference between that and actual emotion?"

"It just is different."

"It's different because you're soulless, right?"

"Stop asking questions you already know the answer to. Of course it is."

"Sometimes you need to examine your mantras and see if they're useful, Asriel. Do you think the nightmares will go away if you continue insisting that you don't feel fear?"

"That has nothing to do with it. I just don't have certain things. It's objective facts."

"Then look at the objective facts. You're avoiding certain topics. You wouldn't do that if you truly felt nothing about anything."

"I avoid them because I'm sick and tired of everyone who sees stuff in me that's not there," you snap. Your voice rises. "I'm not a tragedy. I'm not a victim. I'm not tortured by what happened to me. All that stuff is just what you'd like to believe, and I'm not about to give anyone any reason to think it. I know how you people work. If I start saying stuff like 'I died because I was too spineless to prevent my sibling from committing suicide' or 'I dream about murdering people,' the only thing it'll change is how much pity people look at me with! I'm not going to be any less an abomination just because I let people know what happens inside my head! I'm not going to suddenly feel love again because people know more about me! The only thing that will change is people's expectations!"

She's silent. No expression that you can read. You want to dig your claws into her shoulders and shake her. When she speaks, it's infuriatingly even. "Those are valid concerns."

"Don't talk to me like that. Don't you patronize me."

"It's true. They're also deeply emotional."

"You're not _listening._ "

"An emotionless person wouldn't care how they were perceived," she says. It's not harsh. It's the sound of a person administering a shot to a sick child. Kind and detached, both at once. "An emotionless person wouldn't care about being a victim. They wouldn't have nightmares. And they wouldn't yell at me. Someone who was truly emotionless simply wouldn't care about any of it. But you do care. And that's what tells me that you're not the abomination you think you are."

"Shut up. Shut up!"

"You're not empty, Asriel. You might be soulless. You might not be able to feel empathy. But you're not empty, and you still have emotions that you need to acknowledge before you can get better."

"You're seeing what you _want to see."_ There's magic sparking in your spine, lacing down to your fingertips, ready to ignite. Noise is building in your head. Your thoughts are confused by the clatter. "Just like I said you would! Just like I knew everyone would! You don't know what's happening in my head. You have no idea what I am or what I'm capable of."

"You could be right that I'm seeing what I want to see. Maybe I have no idea how this works. But you're ripping holes in my armchair right now."

You look down. Your claws have torn several gashes in the cloth. Slowly, you force your hands to unclench. "I don't-- I don't--"

You can't feel. You can't. You're still soulless. You've known since almost the beginning that it was impossible. Anger and guilt and fear, they're just -- they're concepts. They're not the magic humming in your fingertips. They're something else.

She's wrong. She has to be.

Her voice is soft. "I can see why you want to believe that you don't have emotions. If you don't feel things, you can't be a victim. You don't have to process the trauma you're too numb to experience. Of course you don't want to be seen as a tragedy for what happened to you. It's the most natural thing in the world."

"Stop talking."

"You've only been soulless for a little while. We don't know your exact limitations. I think that once you've dealt with what happened to you, we can--"

"No!"

You're on your feet. Finally, all the directionless noise in your head narrows down to a single point, and you're nearly laughing. You point a fiery finger at her. "A little while. A little while. You have _no idea_ what I am or what I did while I was dead. You have no clue! I'm not a victim, I'm a, a…"

_A perpetrator._

"Asriel--"

The noise in your head is so loud you can't hear yourself think. Your hands shake. It's funny. It's _so_ funny. There's smoke escaping your fingertips and you can't make it stop and you don't want to. All that you are, teeth and claws and endless, empty hunger, aches to ruin this.

Hundreds of resets spent killing. Hundreds spent hurting people because you could. You were soulless then, and you are soulless now. Nothing about you has changed except for the body you wear. You weren't angry or fearful or upset or guilty when you killed. You can't have been then. And you can't be now.

"You're wrong about me. You're always going to be wrong."

Before she can say more, you turn on your heel. You don't know where you're going. You don't care. You're not going to stick around and wait for her to hit you with more of her assumptions. She calls your name, but you're already running down the corridor, pushing through the fire exit and out into the sunshine, and you are gone, uncaring of the consequences.

Stupid. _Stupid._ You're so good at conforming to expectations. She almost had you believing there. As if you don't know what you are, or what your emptiness has made you capable of. As if you could ever think that you're anything more than what you are now. You're so good at being what people want that you nearly forgot the truth.

(You're not as good a liar as you think you are.)

...Chara. You need to talk to Chara. It doesn't matter that they don't want your company anymore. There's nobody in the world who understands what you are the way they do. Frisk is too perfect, your dad too hung up on regret, your mom too smothering. They'll help you make sense of the energy running through you right now. They'll understand.

You want to laugh. You can't. You decide that you'll burn things instead until the pressure is gone. That, hopefully, will keep you in one piece until you can talk to your sibling again.

***

You come home, clothes rumpled and smelling of smoke, your mind determinedly empty, early in the evening. You spot several cars already parked in your driveway, and you let out an exhale. Good. Frisk is probably home, then, already starting this weird meeting. 

You'll have to wait until after it's done to talk to Chara. You don't love the idea of sitting around and listening to whatever it is Frisk has to say, but it'll probably be decently interesting. At the very least, the focus will be taken off you and your whole skipping-out-on-therapy thing. 

You can do it. Just hold together for two more hours. Just don't think. You should be good at not thinking.

People are in the living room, chatting like it's a party. You linger in the doorway for a moment, watching everyone. Papyrus, Sans, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, your parents, all socializing. Frisk's best friends. With the exception of your parents, they all seem so comfortable with each other. There's a lot of love in this little house. Love you aren't able to feel.

No sign of Frisk. You turn to search their room, or go see in the bathroom, but they're already standing behind you. And you… you do _not_ feel fear, but their expression is weirding you out. You didn't even hear them approach you.

 _You made it back,_ they sign. 

"I had to eventually."

They nod once. There's something in their eyes, piercing right through you. Determination. The fur on the back of your neck prickles. They sign, _Come on._

"What's going on?"

_Responsibility._

"Responsibility?"

But they're already pushing past you, moving into the living room, and you have no choice but to follow them. 

"Asriel," your mom says when she sees you, and there's both relief and rebuke in it. There are multiple sets of eyes on you. "Where were you? Are you alright? Were you setting fires again?" 

You shrug and sit beside Alphys on the couch, folding your feet under you. She's the most likely to give you space. You don't think she's realized you used to be Flowey -- nobody does -- but she finds you intimidating. She'll be a good buffer between you and everybody else. "Nobody got hurt. I didn't get anybody's property this time, either."

"What happened?" your dad asks. "Your mother said you stormed out of your therapy session."

"It doesn't matter." Seeing that multiple people are opening their mouths, you deflect. "If you need to get after me about it later, go ahead. Whatever. But Frisk has something to say first. Pay attention to them."

Frisk has remained standing where everyone can see them, face like stone. They sign, _Thanks for coming. There's still a threat to monsters that you all need to know about._

That catches your attention. From the far end of the couch, Undyne says, "A threat? What kind of threat? Do you need us to fight it?"

_No._

"Is there someone who you need all of our help to pacify?" Papyrus asks. "Because do not worry, human! We will all do our very best to--"

 _No,_ they sign again, shaking their head rapidly. You think they're trembling. Their motions stay quick and concise, their gaze even, but you catch something uneasy about the way they sign. _It's complicated. And hard to believe. But you need to pay attention._

They're not talking about you, are they?

"Whatever it is, darling, you don't need to look so scared," Mettaton says. "We can overcome it together."

"A-a-and we will believe you," Alphys interjects. "It's-- it's n-n-not like w-we haven't all seen something weird before."

"That's right! Like that dog that built a shrine under Papyrus' kitchen sink!" Undyne says. "Maybe it's not exactly a threat to monsterkind, but it's a weird thing that we all got used to together."

"It will be fine, honey," your mom says. "Just tell us. I promise we will listen to your fears."

You're struck at how much like chalk their face looks. Rigid, but not alive, ready to crumble. You can't read their expression very well, but there's so much determination that you think it could blind whoever looked at it directly. It's a strange juxtaposition.

Their hands lift. Slowly, they sign, _The first time all of you saw me. You remember it? Didn't all of you feel like you had seen me before? Like deja vu?_

Oh. Oh, that.

You didn't think that Frisk was the type to be afraid of their own power. With great power comes great responsibility and all, but they've never done anything but be kind to people. It seems strange for them to think that they're a threat. They're not like you; they're not going to get bored and start treating people like toys. They should know that they're better than that. 

"Yeah," Undyne says. "I thought it was kind of weird."

There's a round of assent. Nods, verbal agreements. You notice that Sans looks much more frozen than he usually does.

_It's because it wasn't the first time. I can go back in time. Repeat events. Make things go differently._

"Time travel?" your dad says slowly. "But that is…"

Impossible, he wants to say. But he can't. You can read the growing recognition in his eyes. It's in your mom's too. Everyone's. They're realizing their mostly-erased impressions of past timelines. You've seen it happen before, in the timelines you told people about your powers. It must be disorienting. You can't imagine what it feels like.

_(--the feeling of a blade whispering through your stem--)_

What? That's not… you didn't…

_We've reached the Surface before. I sent us all back again. Things weren't perfect enough. I thought I could defuse tension in the city better. I thought I could help Asriel adjust better. It started with good intentions. But then I..._

Their hands are shaking. _I'm a threat to everyone. I'm sorry. I went back and fixed it all, because I felt sorry, and I shouldn't have done it in the first place, but I... I chose to use my powers to..._

Their hands suddenly still. When they lift their chin, you see Chara in the flash of their eyes. You know, instinctively, that they're saying the words Frisk can't bring themself to sign. You're too cold to care. The realization rings like a death knell in your ears.

"I have used time travel to intentionally, systematically murder all of you," they say, enunciation sharp enough to cut glass. "And I am capable of doing it again. You are not safe with me. You never have been."

Your heart goes cold as ice.

The room dissolves into chaos.


End file.
